Sinking Slowly
by glishara
Summary: When the Sorting Hat tries to place Harry, he finds himself tempted by the promise of power Slytherin has to offer. How do the events of the first book unfold under those circumstances? What friends will he make? May closely mirror events of Book One.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Up until the sorting, the events of this fic are identically to those in the canon story of Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone. The deviation happens in the middle of chapter seven. The first nine paragraphs of this story are directly taken from the book, as is some of the dialogue. All of the characters (with a very few exceptions) belong to JK Rowling.

* * *

There weren't many people left now. 

"Moon"..., "Nott"..., "Parkinson"..., then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil"..., then "Perks, Sally-Anne"..., and then, at last --

"Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"_Potter_, did she say?"

"_The_ Harry Potter?"

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, _Not Slytherin, not Slytherin._

"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure?" A flash of doubt hit Harry at the question, and the voice continued seductively. "You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that." The image came to mind of Dudley; Harry remembered the beatings and imagined the opportunity to turn the tables. He need never be powerless again... "Ah, yes," said the voice. "I see. SLYTHERIN!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the entire hall. He took the hat off to the explosive applause of the Slytherin table, who had risen to their feet. Draco Malfoy, whom Harry had been sure would not warm to him again, was applauding along with the others, triumph in his face. All of the Slytherins, in fact, looked like that -- covetous and victorious. It was a dirty kind of joy, and Harry's relief drained out of him.

The faces nearer to him were equally revealing. Professor McGonagall's look of shock was fading already into her earlier prim tightness. Ron Weasley looked as though Harry had just stuck a knife into his stomach – horrified, betrayed, and a bit sick.

But it was too late now. Harry rose from the stool, placing the hat on the stool and moving to take an empty seat at the Slytherin table. There were only four people still waiting in the group, and Harry stole a look at the head table as "Thomas, Dean" was called.

Hagrid was staring at him with a look too similar to Ron's – disbelief, as if someone had killed his pet dog and the pain hadn't quite penetrated yet. At the center of the table sat the Headmaster, whom Harry recognized from his chocolate frog card. Dumbledore's eyes were unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles, and his mouth had an interesting shape, somewhere between a smile and a frown, but far from neutral. Professor Quirrell, the man from the Leaky Cauldron, was wearing an unattractive purple turban, and seemed almost to be avoiding looking at Harry. He wasn't watching the sorting, but staring at his twitching hands.

Dean Thomas went to Gryffindor. When Harry started to applaud for him, a few of the people near him at the table cast him dark looks, and he stopped, feeling embarrassed and awkward. Lisa Turpin, who followed him, went to Ravenclaw. Ron Weasley was one of the two people remaining, and looked faintly ill.

As Ron approached the Hat, Draco Malfoy spoke from beside Harry in his lazy drawl. "Wouldn't it be funny if he went to Hufflepuff? It's where that whole family belongs, really. Although Gryffindor is the house for courage, I suppose they must be brave, to be willing to show their faces in public."

"GRYFFINDOR!" Ron took the hat off his head, looking faint with relief, and ran to the Gryffindor table, where he was enthusiastically greeted by his relatives and generally applauded. Harry wanted to clap, as well, but the disapproving glowers when he applauded for Thomas left his edgy and uncertain; he kept quiet, watching Ron's welcome.

"Well, there you go," Draco said snidely. "It's probably best to keep the damage confined to Gryffindor, anyway. We wouldn't want Hufflepuff infected with Weasley; they're in enough trouble as it is."

Harry could feel his face heating, but he didn't say anything. With Dudley, any attempt to protest his nastiness generally only served to focus it squarely on Harry. He imagined Draco Malfoy would be similar, and he didn't want to alienate his entire house. After the looks he'd received for politely applauding a Gryffindor, if he actively defended one, he would likely be universally scorned.

The final boy was "Zabini, Blaise", and he had the hat on his head for several long seconds before "SLYTHERIN!" was declared as his destination. Harry applauded with the rest of his table, though his grin was forced and felt as though it must look terribly artificial. Blaise moved to the Slytherin table, settling in across from Harry to the congratulations of his new housemates.

"Hey, congratulations," Harry said after the rush of noise had died down, and Blaise looking over at him with ill-disguised curiousity. He was a black boy with high cheekbones, tall for their age.

"Thanks," he said. "I suppose you're really the Harry Potter?" He tried to sound casual, but it wasn't really working. Several eyes at the table, and a few from the neighboring Ravenclaw table, were on them.

"Er, yeah," said Harry, feeling awkward. "It's nothing special to me, though. I didn't know that being Harry Potter meant anything until I got my letter."

Blaise pulled back a bit, as though abruptly afraid Harry might have some kind of contagious disease. "Oh," he said, his voice slightly disapproving. "Then you're Muggle-born?" He looked confused. "No… you can't be, can you?"

"My aunt and uncle raised me," Harry explained. "They're Muggles. The worst sort. But my mum and dad were magic."

Blaise looked extremely relieved. "Oh. Good."

Professor McGonagall had rolled up the hat by now, and removed the stool. Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat, and the hall fell silent. Harry glanced at his empty plate and wondered how much longer it would be before they were allowed to eat.

Dumbledore opened his arms as if to embrace the entire student body and offered them a twinkling smile. "Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

There was applause as he sat down, but Harry was a bit baffled. Next to him, Draco Malfoy muttered: "Barmy as a bat."

Harry turned to glance at him. "He's… not quite sane, is he?"

"Sane?" said Draco. "Senile. He's been crazy since day one, though. Worst thing that ever happened to the school, according to my father."

One of the older Slytherin girls added, "It's probably his fault your parents are dead."

Harry felt like he'd been hit in the stomach. "What – What do you mean?"

The plates in front of them had filled with food, but Harry scarcely noticed. He no longer felt very hungry. The girl took a spoonful of potatoes as she responded. "My mother says that during the war, Dumbledore led the resistance against… You Know Who. He recruited warriors from his student body. They probably would never have gotten involved if Dumbledore hadn't been here. An awful lot of Dumbledore's warriors were teenagers or young adults. And he let them go into danger, where they got killed."

She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, and Harry turned to look up at the staff table again, still feeling a bit ill. Dumbledore was quietly speaking with Professor McGonagall as he poured gravy onto his potatoes. This man had let Harry's parents get killed?

"Lamb chops?" The girl sitting next to Blaise held the platter out to Harry with a smile. He remembered that she'd been sorted a bit before him; she was "Parkinson, Pansy." She was a pretty enough girl, but there was definitely something artificial about her dimpled smile.

"Oh. Thanks." Harry took the plate and slid a piece of the meat onto his plate, then looked around at the assortment of food. There were astonishing mounds of food in dozens of varieties – beef, chicken, steak, pork, lamb, sausages, several styles of potatoes, and close to all the vegetables known to man. With the reminder from Pansy, he realized again just how hungry he was, and reached for the boiled potatoes. "Thanks," he said again, with a bit more force this time.

Pansy smiled at him. "So, you really were raised by Muggles?" she asked. "It must have been horrible for you. I think I'd rather die than be forced to live with them for so long."

"Yeah," agreed Blaise. "I'd be afraid of infection."

Harry felt, for some odd reason, compelled to defend the Dursleys. "They aren't always that bad. I mean, my aunt and uncle are horrible, but it's mostly because they didn't know what to do with me, I think."

"They bloody well should have known," Blaise said with some heat. "You're Harry Potter. Their place was to provide for you, and feel privileged to do so."

"Well, they didn't think I was anything special," Harry said. "They didn't care about things in the magical world."

"Which is why Muggles should never be allowed to think for themselves," Draco said. "They're just too stupid for that. Imagine how much better things would be for them if we took over."

It was hard to argue with that, although Harry knew that most non-magical folk would object to it fairly strenuously. Wizards simply had more power. They could do more to treat disease and provide for people. If Ron Weasley's family represented poverty in the wizarding world, Harry knew it had to be much better than the Muggle world.

To avoid talking for a bit, he dug into his food and listened to the conversation shift to families. Most of the people at the table seemed to be able to recite their family tree back several generations, and took great interest in comparing notes. Most of them seemed to be related at one level or another.

"Ida Bones Nott was your great-grandmother? My great-great-grandfather was her brother – Leopold Bones."

"If Mary Stallworth was your great-aunt, then we must be cousins…"

Harry, naturally, knew very little about his family, other than his parents' names. He remained quiet, saying little. The arrival of a forbidding ghost stalled conversation for a moment as he settled into the empty seat on the other side of Draco from Harry. He was tall and gaunt, with an unseeing gaze and silvery stains on his robes that looked unsettlingly like blood. Draco did not look particularly pleased by the seating arrangements.

"Meet the Bloody Baron, children," said Jacob Peterson, a sixth-year boy with a nasty smile. Harry felt instinctively wary of him, like a rabbit meeting his first fox.

The Baron said nothing, simply turned to stare blankly through Harry. Harry swallowed and tried to look normal as he reached again for the Yorkshire pudding and gravy.

The conversation started up around him again, and before long the dinner plates emptied and a wide assortment of desserts appeared. Harry, who had never been allowed much in the way of dessert at the Dursleys', was a bit overwhelmed by the selection. He watched to see what Blaise took, and reached for some of the same. Blaise offered him a smile.

"I love trifle," he said. "The house-elf at home makes it as a specialty."

"House-elf?" Harry repeated, confused, but taking a bite of the trifle, which was delicious, seeming to convert directly to taste on his tongue, leaving little solid behind.

"Yeah," Blaise said. "They're a sort of servant, tied to the house. They love to do all the things other people don't like doing – cleaning, cooking, carrying things. Nothing makes them happier than serving a noble wizard family."

What an odd evolutionary niche for a race to fill. Harry imagined having a house-elf at the Dursleys' home, and realized how much of his day would be freed by it. There was definitely some real brilliance in the way this world worked. "Wish I had one," he said enviously.

"Your father's family may have had one once. They were old blood, right? It's generally only people with big estates that have house-elves." Blaise took a bite of his trifle, his expression one of grudging approval. "It's not like it is at home, but it's not bad."

Harry was remembering the piles of Galleons in his Gringotts vault. Did he have a house somewhere, too? A place to go live once he was old enough to leave the Dursleys?

"My family has a house-elf," Draco said. "They're fairly stupid. He runs around all the time doing things wrong and punishing himself for it. It's fun to just tell him to beat himself and watch him do it."

Harry felt faintly ill again. Suddenly, the idea of house-elves wasn't quite as appealing.

"Your house-elf is a nutter, though, Draco," put in Pansy Parkinson. "Ours is much better behaved, and really loves the family. You just have a freak."

Blaise smirked. "Maybe the Malfoy Manor is defective."

"Apologize, Zabini!" Draco said angrily. He pulled out his wand menacingly.

"What, are you going to curse me in the middle of the Great Hall?" Blaise said, not sounding very intimidated.

"Back off, Malfoy!" Harry said hotly.

Draco turned to glare at Harry, but was interrupted before he could speak. "Put it away now, Malfoy, or it'll be detention." It was a fifth-year girl, one of the prefects. Harry remembered her name to be Maria Marcos. Draco looked mutinous, but obeyed.

Harry turned his attention back to the head table, feeling very out of his depth in the conversation. Hagrid was watching him in return, and at the hurt look on the gamekeeper's face, Harry dropped his eyes to the table, then felt a flare of anger and looked up again, defiantly. He hadn't asked to be put in Slytherin! He had, in fact, specifically asked not to. If the stupid hat had put him here, they could all be hurt, angry, and betrayed at the hat instead.

Harry didn't look again at Hagrid, instead letting his eyes move to the end of the table where Professor Quirrell was talking with a sallow-hook-nosed man with black, greasy hair. He looked like his mood matched Harry's. As Harry watched, the sallow man looked up, past Quirrell's turban, and squarely met Harry's eyes. A flare of pain shot through Harry's scar, and he let out a startled cry.

"What is it?" asked Pansy, looking faintly distressed.

"Uh, nothing," said Harry. "Just… something went down wrong." The pain was already gone, and the man had looked away, but Harry had seen something nasty in his expression in that moment of contact. "Do you know who that man is?" he asked. "The dark-haired one, talking with Professor Quirrell?"

It was Draco who answered. "That's Professor Snape," he said. "He's our Head of House, and a good friend of my father's." He said that last with a bit of a snide edge to it, as if expecting some degree of favoritism. Harry didn't know if the expectation was justified, so didn't comment on it.

"He teaches Potions," added Theodore Nott, another first-year. "My father says that's one class I have no excuse for doing badly in. We have to be careful in most classes, because so many of the teachers have it in for us. Especially McGonagall. She favors the Gryffindors; you'll see."

Harry nodded, though he wasn't at all sure he agreed with this. He looked down at his trifle again, but was no longer hungry.

"Really, Snape should be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts," said the prefect girl, Maria. "He knows more about the Dark Arts than Quirrell any day, and it's the post he really wants. Dumbledore won't give it to him."

"Probably because he doesn't trust Slytherins," said Draco. "The old fool."

Eventually, the food vanished from their plates, just as dinner had, and Dumbledore rose to his feet. He held up a hand and the hall went quiet, all eyes turning to him.

"Ahem- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." He looked towards the Gryffindor table as he said this, and Draco smirked.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, our caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

There were a few laughs at this last, but not many, and Harry turned to look at Blaise, who gave a little shrug.

Dumbledore then led the school in a truly cacaphonous rendition of the school song, for which the first-years sat and stared blankly. It was hard to even find the words in it until the end, when two twins, tall and redheaded, droned out the final lines far behind everyone else as a funeral dirge. Once the song was over, Dumbledore dismissed the students.

"And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

Harry had no idea where he was going, but fortunately, the prefects were there. "First years, this way!" Maria called. They grouped together with the prefects, who led them through the thronging masses down corridors and staircases, descending lower into the castle. They walked directly through one solid-seeming wall and behind a tapestry as they threaded the maze of hallways that made up the dungeons beneath the school, until they finally came to a damp stone wall. "Serpentigenae!" Maria said to the wall, and it slid away to reveal an elegantly decorated room.

The room was long and low ceilinged, and the walls were of rough stone. The harshness of the construction only lent it grandeur, however. An enormous fireplace stood opposite the door, with an elaborately carved mantelpiece. Green lights hung from sturdy iron chains. The room had a sense of barbarism contained to it. Harry felt a bit of a chill to know that he would be here for the next seven years, but it was a bit gratifying to know he belonged in this room.

Doors led out of the room on both narrow ends, and Maria pointed the boys through one and the girls through the other. Through his, Harry found their bedroom – six four-poster beds hung with silk-lined green curtains and silk bedding. His trunk was waiting for him at the foot of his bed. Without talking much to the other boys, Harry changed into his pajamas and got into bed.

The other boys were asleep quickly, but Harry had more trouble. He lay awake for a long time in the darkness, tired but unable to relax. It had been an odd day. He was still not certain how much he liked the house into which he had been placed, and the day had done little to soothe his sense of not belonging.

Most disturbing, however, had been the look he had received from his new Head of House. Professor Snape, he could tell already, did not like him, and possibly never would. It remained to be seen how well Harry would be able to deal with that.


	2. Chapter 2

"Look, over there!"

"Is that him?"

"Of course it is! Look at that scar!"

"I thought he'd be taller…"

"Well, I thought he wouldn't be in Slytherin."

Whispers followed Harry around constantly for the first few days of the term. Everywhere he went, people would stop to stare, most of them with some combination of awe and fear. It had been vaguely gratifying for the first few minutes, but it quickly became an irritation. Everything was hard enough to find in the shifting maze that was Hogwarts Castle without the distraction of a constant audience.

There was no doubt that Hogwarts was a magical castle. The floor plan wasn't constant. Staircases would shift; one day a path would take you to the great hall, and the next day it would dead-end by the charms classroom. Finding paths that were reliable would take time.

More confusing than the geography were the classes: they studied a dizzying array of topics.

Every Monday they had to wait until midnight and climb what felt like a hundred flights of stairs from the dungeon up to the top of the astronomy tower, the highest point in the castle. There, they studied the night sky, memorizing the placements of the stars and learning about their significance to certain spells.

Charms class, with Professor Flitwick, promised to be occasionally fun and occasionally infuriating; the various spells they would be learning seemed interesting but difficult. After the first class, Millicent Bulstrode and Theodore Nott spent a long time with their heads together snickering over rude nicknames for the diminutive teacher. Harry felt faintly embarrassed by it, and tried not to listen, but had to admit that some of them were fairly clever.

Professor McGonagall taught Transfiguration, a genuine disaster of a class. She was a stern disciplinarian, and demanding; by the end of the first class period with her, Slytherin had lost thirty-five points for misbehavior. The twenty they had gained for correct answers and good performance seemed almost insulting in that context.

McGonagall seemed determined to show that she would not show favoritism towards Harry, the "class hero" as many had called him with varying degrees of sincerity. She had called on him several times, sending disapproving looks when he failed to answer her inevitably difficult questions.

"Honestly, Mr. Potter, I would think you would have taken the time to at least crack your books before arriving in my classroom. You are wasting everyone's time."

Once or twice, a snicker came from the back of the classroom in response to a particularly scathing commentary. McGonagall could cut with her words. Harry's cheeks burned, and he seethed inwardly at the injustice of it. The extra attention did nothing to make his work easier; they were attempting to turn a match into a needle, and he could tell that he was having absolutely no success without McGonagall's disapproving looks.

History of Magic was painfully dull. Blaise sat next to Harry, and Theodore Nott joined the pair of them. "We can always steal the notes from a Hufflepuff," Theodore said, breaking out a deck of cards and shuffling while Professor Binns droned on obliviously. Professor Binns was the only one of their teachers who was not alive: a ghost, his lessons seemed to be at the same misty distance as his physical body. Nothing his classes did ever seemed to affect him. Harry felt slightly guilty about ignoring him, but not guilty enough to try to stay alert through his tedious lectures.

Everyone had been very excited about Defense Against the Dark Arts, with Professor Quirrell, but the class failed to live up to expectations. Professor Quirrell spoke very quickly and uncertainly, as though a bit afraid of his students – no real surprise, since he seemed to be afraid of everything else. His classroom was hung with bunches of garlic, and he wore that absurd purple turban all the time. A foul odor tended to hover around it, and Blaise theorized that he was afraid of shampoo as well as everything else. Although Quirrell told great stories about dangers he had faced, he seemed to have lost his nerve.

"Don't worry too much about that," Malfoy had said suggestively that evening in the common room when people complained about the classes. "We'll pick it all up somewhere." When people pressed for more detail, he just smiled coolly. Harry suspected Malfoy was the kind of boy who wasn't comfortable unless he was controlling events around him. He seemed resentful of the attention Harry was getting from their classmates, but hung around them anyway, always with the hulking shadows of Crabbe and Goyle, his two henchmen.

Herbology was a double class with Ravenclaw, and was a fairly peaceable event. The Ravenclaws lived up to their reputations as intellectuals, focusing on their work while the Slytherins worked with each other. Harry paired with Blaise for most of his work.

Finding his way around the labyrinthine contortions of the Slytherin social life was even more difficult than his classes. It seemed there were special protocols for addressing everyone, based off of a combination of age, family, social standing, class standing, and popularity. Most frustrating was the fact that everyone except Harry seemed to know it automatically.

Harry's position was higher than most in his year, given his fame. Because of this, most of his classmates deferred to him in conversations. Draco Malfoy was the exception; Harry could tell already that his early rejection of Malfoy had been a mistake. Malfoy was not the kind of person who took insults lightly, and he seemed determined to win the rest of the Slytherins away from their support of Harry.

He was always making snide comments about Harry's supposed arrogance and how overrated he was. "I'm sure Potter can tell us what we're doing wrong," he drawled as the first years sat struggling with their Charms assignments. Pansy Parkinson snickered. The Slytherins were fast learning that Draco would react much worse than Harry would if they didn't side with him, so several of them were riding the fence of responding to Draco's mockery while still spending time with Harry.

Harry tried to tune out Draco's sniping, but it was harder to do when the person doing the mocking was his Head of House.

The Potions classroom was not far from the Slytherin common room, and most of Harry's housemates were excited about the first class. The rumors that Snape went easier on Slytherins were a source of comfort for students who had been fighting with difficult teachers in other classes. Harry was a bit uneasy. He remembered that flash of pain in his scar at the start-of-year feast; it didn't seem like a reassuring sign.

The class was a double with the Gryffindors. For the first time since the sorting ceremony, Harry saw Ron Weasley again somewhere other than his house table. Although he knew he was risking displeasure from his fellow Slytherins, he offered Ron a smile and wave as Ron came in the door.

Ron hesitated when he saw Harry, just a few steps inside the door. There was an empty seat beside Harry, which he had left deliberately. Ron's eyes moved to it, but after a few seconds, a black boy Harry only half-remembered from the Sorting came up and caught his elbow. "Ron. There's a table back there."

Ron turned to look at him, offering a quick grin. "Right. Let's go." The two of them walked past Harry's table and to a seat in the back, beside another Gryffindor.

In the end, Harry wound up sitting with the girl he'd met on the train, Hermione Granger. She didn't pay much attention to him, instead taking her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi out of her bag. She placed it neatly in front of her, then took out a quill, ink pot, and clean scroll, poising attentively. The professor hadn't even arrived yet, and she was gazing raptly at the place where he was likely to stand eventually.

Professor Snape arrived promptly as class started, walking in through the back door of the classroom with his black robes swirling around his ankles. He let the door slam closed behind him and paused for a moment to survey the class. Harry didn't think it was possible, but Hermione drew herself up straighter at this.

Snape began the class by taking roll call, and when he came to Harry's name, he paused, looking up from the scroll. "Ah, yes," he said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity."

Harry felt himself bristling defensively, but didn't say anything. He heard Draco snigger, and giggles from a few of the Gryffindor girls. Harry straightened his back and set his jaw in a kind of defensive defiance. Snape finished calling the roll and looked up. His eyes were pitch black and felt like deep tunnels, cold and empty.

"You are here," he began in a low, compelling voice, to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." The entire class was silent; despite the quiet tones, they could hear every word. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, m any of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death-- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Harry swallowed hard in the silence that answered this speech. Hermione was sitting on the edge of her seat beside him, her attention so intense it seemed to be an attempt to bore into Snape's mind the idea that she, at least, was no dunderhead.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione shot her hand instantly into the air, but Harry had no idea. He stared at Snape, wracking his brain to try and place either of the words, but he had no hope of answering correctly. "I don't know, sir."

A faint titter of laughter answered this. Harry felt his face flush. Snape's lip curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut – fame clearly isn't everything."

Ignoring Hermione's hand, he went on. "Let's try again. Potter," he hit the name hard, with a disdainful twist, "where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?"

Harry had no idea, and his confusion was not helped by Hermione's contortions as she stretched her hand desperately upwards. He could hear Draco's laughter, and didn't turn around.

"I don't know, sir," he had to say again.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

Harry had flipped through all of his books at the Dursleys', and thought this an unfair accusation. Did Snape expect him to remember all of the thousand magical herbs and fungi in their textbook? He forced himself to meet Snape's eyes squarely, though he could feel Hermione quivering with excitement beside him, her hand stretched high.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

This was horribly unfair of Snape, and Harry felt himself simmering. Unable to raise her hand further while seated, Hermione actually got out of her chair, which only served to make Harry feel smaller beside her. Not only was he feeling stupid, he had to acknowledge that beside Granger's obvious knowledge, he was letting Slytherin House down.

"I don't know," he said quietly. He longed to tell Snape to ask Hermione instead, but didn't want to make the difference between the houses quite so blatant.

Snape finally acknowledged Hermione, snapping an irritated, "Sit down," at her. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As far as monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you copying that down?"

The last question was addressed to the entire class in an irritated snap, and everyone busied themselves rummaging for quills and jotting down notes. Hermione slumped disappointed beside Harry, giving him a look of pity that Harry suspected had more to do with his ignorance than the way Snape had been hassling him.

For the rest of the class, the Potions master seemed more interesting in harassing the Gryffindors than Harry. He had set his pupils to work on creating what he said was a simple potion to cure boils. It seemed dizzyingly complex to Harry, with dozens of ingredients and painstakingly complex instructions for assembling it. He was relieved for the first time that he was sitting beside Hermione Granger, as she seemed to know instinctively how to do these things.

As Snape circled the room watching them measure out porcupine quills and count horned slugs, he had some kind of rude word for nearly everyone in the class, though it was clear he was hardest on the Gryffindors. Only Draco escaped any criticism; it seemed Snape liked him. He sneered so derisively at Neville Longbottom that the boy looked near tears. Harry heard a chorus of snickers. Draco's he expected, but he had to avoid meeting Blaise's eyes when he realized he was participating.

"Harry, you're doing that wrong!" Hermione said, taking away the mortar and pestle he'd been using to crush his snake fangs. Harry's face burned, but he tried to push it down, instead swallowing hard and focusing on what Hermione was doing. Snape came by and looked down at the pair of them with a disapproving expression, but he didn't say anything. The back of Harry's neck prickled.

A loud hissing sound began behind Harry, and he turned in his seat to see that Longbottom had managed to melt a hole in his partner's cauldron. Their potion was spreading over the floor, burning holes in everything it touched. Harry hurriedly scrambled up onto his stool, and he wasn't alone. Neville had been drenched when the cauldron gave way, and angry red boils were springing up all over his arms and legs. He was giving helpless pained moans.

"Idiot boy," Snape snarled with a total lack of sympathy. He pulled his wand from a pocket of his robe and, with a single wave, cleared away all of the spilled potion. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville could not answer. Boils were spreading across his nose now.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Longbottom's partner, who looked furious. Snape rounded on Harry.

"Potter," he snapped. "Why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought it would make you look good if he got it wrong, did you?"

This was so unfair that Harry couldn't keep down his protest. "I was looking completely the other way!"

Snape's expression darkened, but Harry thought he saw a gleam in his eye. "How dare you talk back to me? Detention, Potter. I will see you tonight in my office."

Detention in his first week! Harry wanted to protest again, but stomped hard on the impulse; it certainly wouldn't help his situation. Draco and Crabbe and Goyle were openly laughing, and a few of the Gryffindors looked amused. Harry turned determinedly back to his cauldron. Hermione cast him a sidelong long, then went quietly back to work.

Harry managed to get out of Potions without further mishap. He met up with Blaise outside the hallway, who offered a commiserative, "He has it in for you."

"I don't know why!" Harry protested. "I didn't do anything in there!"

"Maybe you should try a little harder not to get upset," Blaise said. "He can't do anything too bad if you don't lose your temper with him."

Just then, Ron Weasley came out with Dean Thomas, the boy he'd only half-recognized before. Thomas offered him an unfriendly grin and said, "Next time, maybe you won't be so quick to show off, eh, Potter?"

Harry ached with the injustice of this accusation, but didn't respond. It hurt to see that Ron smiled along with the gibe. Instead, Blaise snapped back at Dean, "Talk to me when you've got decent magical blood, Thomas."

"Back off, Zabini," Ron snapped. Blaise just laughed and led Harry away. Harry glanced back over his shoulder at Ron as he left, watching the red-headed boy disappear around the corner.

It was with a deep sense of dread that Harry descended from the Great Hall to his detention with Snape that evening. He paused outside the door for a long minute, steeling himself to knock.

His tentative rap was answered by a low word: "Enter."

Harry pushed the door open and stepped into the office. Snape was sitting in front of a cauldron, brewing something noxious and foul-smelling. His black eyes rested on Harry as he came in through the door, glittering darkly. Harry resisted the urge to look away.

"Potter." Snape let the name hang there, dripping verbal poison.

Harry forced himself to remain respectful, "Good evening, Professor."

Snape's lip curled at the greeting. "Sit," he ordered, jerking his chin to indicate a chair. Harry crossed to perch uncomfortably on the edge of the seat. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

"This," Snape said, his voice that same quiet sneer, "is the Draft of Unquenchable Thirst. It will cause the drinker to fixate upon an object, able to focus on nothing else until they have obtained it. It is a difficult potion to make, and requires painstaking diligence. Tonight, you will stir it for me. Exactly one stir every two seconds, reversing direction every six stirs. Continue until it turns to a thick amber syrup. Three hours should suffice."

Three hours? The smell of the potion was already beginning to sting Harry's eyes. He knew better than to complain, however. "Yes, professor," he said helplessly.

"Should you botch the job," Snape said, "as I am certain you will, you can return here tomorrow to try again. Eventually, I imagine you will grasp the fundamentals."

Snape's eyes shone with malice. Harry remained mute, staring defiantly at him. After a moment, Snape continued. "I will leave you to it. Take the cauldron off the fire when you are done. And Mr. Potter… Do be careful. This potion has an unfortunate tendency to scar the mixer. And I should hate to see you… marred."

He held the spoon out to Harry. After a second of staring at Snape, Harry accepted it and stuck it into the cauldron, beginning his slow stirs. He didn't look at Snape, but he could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Good night, Potter."

The door banged shut behind Snape.

The silence in the room was overpowering. Harry sat in front of the cauldron, whose quiet hiss somehow deepened the silence, instead of cutting it. It was going to be a long night. For the first few minutes, he concentrated on his stirring, but the slow monotony of it grated his nerves. Once he had a rhythm established, it took very little effort to maintain: six stirs clockwise, six stirs counterclockwise, reverse.

Before long, his attention began to wander around the room. The glass jars on the wall were filled with unrecognizable objects, shining wetly in the dim light. Across the table, a scattering of parchment sheets rested, including a clipping from the Daily Prophet. Bored, Harry read the article.

**GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST**

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

31 July was the day Harry had gone with Hagrid to Gringotts; it was possible the break-in had happened while they were there! In fact… Hagrid had emptied a vault that day, vault seven hundred and thirteen, and had been so secretive when Harry pressed him on it. Was there a connection? And if so, what did Snape have to do with it? Why had he kept the clipping?

With so much to think about, the rest of Harry's detention flew by.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry had to admit that things could have been worse. At night, when he sat listening to Aidan talk about the purity of wizard blood, or during Potions as Snape dug unsubtle barbs into him, he would imagine himself back at Stonewall High in Dudley's old clothes, going back to the Dursley's at night and falling asleep in his cupboard. Hogwarts was certainly better than that life, and if he had no good friends here – well, he hadn't had any at Number 4 Privet Drive, either.

Generally, around his housemates, he could imagine that he fit in. It was a strange kind of group dynamic in Slytherin. People had friends – he and Blaise spent time together, and Draco had Crabbe and Goyle. The girls banded together into small groups, as well. But all of these friendships had a guarded quality, an unwillingness to really open up. Harry had no one he could talk to without any reservations, but neither did anyone else.

It was when they spent time with the other houses that he felt the lack. In Potions classes, when Snape criticized one of the Gryffindors, he saw the way their housemates bristled to their defense. Blaise's reaction when Harry was criticized was usually to look the other way, trying to deflect any of the negative splash onto him. Harry had taken to partnering regularly with Hermione Granger for that reason: if she didn't act like a friend to him, at least he had no reason to expect it.

He was grateful that they spent so little time with the Gryffindors, overall, particularly given the way Ron had been avoiding him since the Sorting Ceremony. So when he saw the notice posted in the Slytherin common room, he let out a low groan. He was not alone. "Flying Lessons to Begin Thursday. Gryffindor and Slytherin: 1:30."

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else, but somehow the idea paled without anyone close to share it with.

"Pathetic," drawled a voice from beside him. "Putting us in lessons with idiot Muggles who have never been on a broom in their lives." Harry didn't feel like getting into another conversation with Draco, so just moved away from the notice board, leaving Draco to the attentions of Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, who were always willing to fawn over him.

"I've been flying for years," he told them. "It's rubbish that first-years never get on the Quidditch teams; the Cup would be ours easily if I were playing. And I have to take lessons alongside people like Longbottom and Granger? Pathetic."

Although Draco was the most vocal, he wasn't the only one with stories about flying. In the day after the notice went up, it felt as though the first year students were split into those who had flown before and those who had not. Nearly everyone in Slytherin had stories to tell, and the other houses were just as full of students who were anxious to tell their best flight stories to anyone who would listen.

Thursday arrived bright and sunny, and the energy in the Great Hall was high. Last-minute jitters rocked the first-time fliers, and boisterous excitement poured out of those with experience.

They all bolted down their food quickly, the expectation knotting their stomachs. By the time the mail arrived, most students were done with their meals. Harry left Draco to brag over the package of sweets his mother had sent and headed towards the door. He hadn't received a single letter since arriving at Hogwarts.

He was distracted as he passed the Gryffindor table by a burst of enthusiasm from Neville Longbottom. A few Gryffindors were clustered around him, gazing at the tiny glass ball he was holding.

"It's a Remembrall!" he was telling them excitedly. "Gran knows I forget things - this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red - oh..." The grey smoke swirling inside the Remembrall turning glowing scarlet, and Longbottom's face fell. "...You've forgotten something..."

Although Harry felt badly for Longbottom, he had to admit that the boy was a bit pathetic at times. As Longbottom struggled to remember what it was that he'd forgotten, Draco appeared behind Harry, leaning forward to pluck the ball from Longbottom's hand.

Ron Weasley was instantly on his feet, with Dean Thomas following a second behind and a little less enthusiastically. Fortunately for everyone involved, however, Professor McGonagall was quicker.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor."

Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table.

"Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him. McGonagall turned her disapproving gaze towards Harry, who quickly turned away, hurrying out of the Great Hall.

* * *

At three-thirty, Harry and Blaise headed with Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode out of the castle and down the front steps onto the grounds for their flying lesson. Draco was already there with Crabbe and Goyle, but none of the Gryffindors had arrived yet. The day was fair and breezy, and Harry took a moment while he waited to gaze around the flat lawn.

Twenty broomsticks were laid out neatly on the grass. They didn't bear much resemblance to the Nimbus 2000 he had seen in Diagon Alley. That had been a sleek, elegant instrument, and these were much cruder: bunches of twigs tied to a long stick. Still, they were broomsticks, and soon, he would be flying on one of them.

He chose a broom with fewer twigs jutting out at odd angles and stepped up beside it. Almost immediately, Draco was there.

"That's my broom, Potter. Pick another." Behind him, Crabbe let out a low snicker.

Harry's face burned. Behind Draco, Blaise was watching the two of them. When Harry's eyes met his, he lifted his eyebrows in a sort of shrug. Harry felt something tighten inside of him.

"Back off, Malfoy," he responded. He wasn't angry, precisely, just tired of backing down.

Draco looked as though someone had waved something unpleasant beneath his nose. "What did you say to me, Potter?"

Harry took a step forward, towards him, trying to ignore the looming hulks of Crabbe and Goyle. "I got to it first. It's my broom. Back off."

"He was there first, Draco," Blaise put in, his voice lazy.

Draco spun to look at the other Slytherins. Pansy and Millicent just giggled, and Theodore Nott gave an apologetic half-shrug. "His broom," he told Draco.

Draco's face was red with anger, his jaw set. Any reply he might have made was cut off by the arrival of the entire group of Gryffindor first-years.

Harry felt a thrill of excitement, his heart beating hard. He had stood up to Draco, and his classmates had backed him. He tried to fight down his triumphant grin and took a moment to study the Gryffindors.

Some of them were gazing at the broomsticks with eager anticipation, some with faint nervousness, and Longbottom with frank terror. Hermione Granger was clutching a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages _as though it were a talisman against harm.

Madam Hooch, their instructor, strode down from the castle. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she demanded, sharp eyes sliding from one student to the next. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry already had his broom, and a little self-satisfied smirk touched his mouth as Draco, delayed by his argument with Harry, wound up with one of the rattiest-looking brooms there.

"Stick out your right hand over the broom," Madam Hooch called to the group, "and say 'Up!'"

"Up!" Harry shouted, in concert with everyone else.

His broom leapt immediately into his hand. It felt right there, the way his wand had when he first held it. He took an instant to revel in the feeling, then took a moment to look around. Only one or two other students had brooms in their hands. Draco, he was sorry to see, was one of them.

The other students continued to shout "Up!" until all the brooms had risen off the ground. Longbottom's was the last to go; for nearly a minute, all eyes were on him while he desperately shouted at it. In the end, Madam Hooch had him just bend down and pick it up.

She then showed them how to mount their brooms, how not to fall off, and how to hold them. Draco was confidently going through the motions until Madam Hooch, walking by, barked at him that his grip was all wrong and chided him for bad habits. Harry managed not to laugh, but Weasley didn't bother trying. The look Draco gave him was murderous.

"Now, when I blow my whistle," Madam Hooch said, "you kick off from the ground hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –"

Maybe it was nerves, maybe just clumsiness, but Longbottom jumped the whistle. He pushed off too hard and shot straight up into the air. He was twelve feet up before Madam Hooch had time to shout, and her ordered, "Come back, boy!" was powerless to stop him.

Longbottom was twenty feet up now, and still rising. His face was white and terrified, and Harry could see his hands start to slide a second before they lost their grip totally. He gasped, slid sideways, and then fell.

WHAM. He hit the ground with a muffled thud and a sickening crack. His broomstick continued to sail away, out over the forbidden forest, as Longbottom lay facedown on the ground.

Madam Hooch was as white as Longbottom's as she bent over him, checking for injuries. "Broken wrist," she muttered. "Come on, boy--it's all right, up you get."

She looked back at the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave these brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

She guided a tear-streaked Neville back towards the castle. Draco, with some effort, managed to hold in his laughter until they were out of earshot, but not longer.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in the laughter. Harry, unamused, glared at Blaise, who immediately stopped laughing.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped one of the Gryffindor girls.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson. "Never thought _you'd_ like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

"Cut it out, Pansy," Harry said. Pansy gave him a startled look, but stopped laughing. Only Crabbe and Goyle were still chortling alongside Draco now. Harry's irritation with Draco had gone too far, and Longbottom's fall gave him an excuse to confront him.

Draco spotted something in the grass, and quickly darted forward to snatch it. "Look," he said, opening his hand to reveal the Remembrall. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

"Put it back," Harry ordered him, taking a step forward.

Draco matched him, advancing closer to Harry. "No," he said with a nasty smile. They both knew this wasn't about Longbottom, or about the Remembrall.

Harry didn't back down. He was tempted to try and snatch the ball out of Draco's hand, but knew if he failed, he'd lose face. So he tried another card. "Pansy," he ordered coolly. "Take the Remembrall from Draco and give it to Granger."

On the edge of the circle watching them, Hermione shifted uncomfortably. Harry ignored her.

Pansy sent a nervous look at Draco, then back at Harry. Finally, she stepped towards Draco.

Draco smiled nastily. "Crabbe, Goyle, stop her," he said.

At those words, Blaise and Theodore stepped forward as one. "Draco, you can't beat up Pansy," Blaise said. Theodore just glared at the blond boy.

There was a moment of silence, and then Pansy stepped forward again and slowly pulled Draco's fingers away from around the Remembrall. Harry again felt that thrill of power as Draco glared murder at him. Pansy dropped the Remembrall into Hermione's hand. "Thank you," Hermione said automatically.

"Thank you," Harry echoed her, turning away from Draco at last.

Ron Weasley came up to him a bit sheepishly as Harry returned to his broom. "Ah, listen, Harry," he said awkwardly. "That was a pretty decent thing there."

High off the surge of victory, Harry's irritation at Weasley's flightiness stuck deep. "I didn't do it for you, Weasley," he said, his tone heated.

Ron recoiled slightly then flushed dark. "Yeah, I figured I was right about you," he snapped. Harry watched him walk away with a bit of a lump in his throat, but didn't say anything.

Madam Hooch returned soon afterwards, telling the class that, "Mr. Longbottom will be fine. Madam Pomfrey will have his patched up before supper. Now! Back to your brooms!"

The lesson went smoothly after that. Flying was every bit as amazing as Harry had imagined it would be, and he seemed to have a natural gift for it. Three times, Madam Hooch called out warnings to him, and it was only her threat to ground him for the rest of the lesson that put an end to his aerial acrobatics.

When they landed on the ground again, Harry felt more exhilarated than ever before in his life. His heart was racing, his blood was pumping, and everything in the world around him felt more vibrant and alive. He had flown, and done it well. He had stood up against Draco Malfoy and won. Here, HE had power.

Blaise caught his sleeve as they headed back up to the castle together. "Careful," he said lowly. "You don't want to cross the Malfoys." It was good advice, but Harry wasn't prepared to take it just yet. He wanted to see how far his reputation here could take him.

* * *

He had the opportunity to test that power the next morning at breakfast. Most of the other Slytherins had left, but he and Theodore were lingering behind, talking: Theodore was attempting to explain the glories of Quidditch, which as far as Harry could tell was a game where people flew around on broomsticks trying to knock one another's blocks off. Harry felt someone looming up behind him, and Theodore went quiet.

Harry waited for Theodore to say a guarded, "Oy, Draco," before turning and offering the blond boy a careful nod.

Draco was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle and looked murderous. "Potter," he flung the name like a challenge.

"Draco," Harry said in response. In the middle of the Great Hall, he knew Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't do anything more than loom imposingly, but the intimidation tactic was working amazingly well. It was an effort to keep his voice even.

"You tried to humiliate me yesterday in front of Gryffindors." He spat the other house's name as if it were a curse.

"Right, which you'd never do to me," Harry said. He could feel the heat rising in his chest. "Or are we just ignoring all those times?"

"I am a Malfoy!"

"I know. And you're a lot braver when you can get the odds to three on one. Is cowardice a Malfoy trait?" He was being stupidly rash, but it felt good.

"I am not afraid of you, Potter!" Malfoy's pale face was darkening. "I'll face you any time, any place! Tonight! Wizard's Duel in the Trophy Room."

"I'll be there." Harry had no idea what a wizard's duel was, but knew he couldn't retreat from Draco now. Blaise spoke up from beside him. "I'm his second," he said coolly.

"Good." Draco smiled in a nasty way. "I'll see you there, Potter." He, Crabbe, and Goyle moved towards the door.

Harry turned back to Blaise. "What's a –" He broke off when he saw the audience their conversation had picked up.

Hermione Granger was standing not far away, her bookbag clutched in white-knuckled hands, staring at Harry. When he met her eyes, she turned to hurry away. "Bloody hell," Harry muttered. He would have to talk to her during Potions. For now, though: "What's a wizard's duel?" he asked Blaise.

It took a minute for Blaise, who was staring after Hermione, to respond. "Huh? Oh, right, you wouldn't know. It's a fight. Wands only. You try to hex him, he tries to hex you."

"I don't know any hexes."

"Yeah, but he probably doesn't, either. You'll probably both stand their waving your wands and looking dumb. Why do you think I offered to come along?"

Harry grinned at that, the tension cut slightly. "What's a second, anyway?"

"Oh, it means I take your place if you die." When he saw the sudden alarm on Harry's face, it was Blaise's turn to grin. "Come on," he said. "We're first-years. He's not going to kill you."

Although he knew Blaise was right, Harry was not completely reassured.

* * *

Harry arrived a bit early for potions that day, taking his seat and watching the door for Hermione's arrival. When she came in, she hesitated, looking at him without approaching. He offered her a little smile and nodded his head towards the seat next to him. After a moment, she came over to sit.

She reached into her bookbag without meeting Harry's eyes. "I wanted to say thank you for getting Neville's Remembrall yesterday," she said, the words all coming in a rush. "It was really nice of you."

Harry shrugged a bit uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, Draco's a prat. Um, about this morning…"

Hermione busied herself with her copy of 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi, flipping quickly through the pages.

Harry tried a more direct approach. "You aren't going to tell anyone, are you?"

"You aren't actually going to do it, are you?" Hermione's tone was scandalized, and Harry dropped his eyes to his own book.

"Look, you wouldn't understand. It's different for me."

"It's stupid boyish pride," Hermione said quietly but urgently. "It's a trick; you know Malfoy wants to get you in trouble or something. You could get kicked out!"

"I can't just back down!" Harry responded, growing a bit angry now.

Hermione bit her lip. "Harry, he wants you to do it. That must mean it's a bad idea."

The worst thing about it was that Hermione was right. If Draco wanted him to do it, it had to be a trap of some sort. But Harry didn't have a choice. He and Draco had walked into this conflict together, and if Harry were to back down now, he'd be backing down for the next seven years. He wasn't prepared to do that.

He was trying to figure out how to explain this to Hermione when Draco came in, followed as always by Crabbe and Goyle. He gave Harry a little smirk.

"Frightened, Potter? Want to back down?"

"Not a chance," Harry shot back. Maybe this was just the kind of thing that only Slytherins would get. He gave Hermione a little shrug, and she deflated slightly.

They spoke less than usual during the class that day.

* * *

Blaise's hurried attempts to teach Harry a blocking spell he had learned from his mother didn't instill Harry with a great deal of confidence, and Harry was painfully aware that he knew no offensive magic at all. But the image of Draco's triumphant face if given proof of Harry's cowardice hovered in front of him, and he knew he couldn't back down.

And so at half-past eleven, he and Blaise were waiting in the Slytherin common room. All the Slytherin first-years knew about the duel by now, and Harry didn't want to listen to their wagers upstairs. Most people were favoring Draco, anyway, though Blaise had nobly taken all action offered against Harry.

Draco had slid out with Crabbe around ten minutes earlier, but Harry wanted the few extra minutes to gather himself before heading out. Finally, Blaise glanced at the door and said, "We'd really better get moving."

"Yeah," Harry said. He took a deep breath and blew it out again, then pushed to his feet and headed out into the hallway.

It was eerily quiet. Harry and Blaise crept along dark hallways and up staircases, headed for the Trophy Room on the third floor. Harry was half-expecting Draco and Crabbe to jump out at them from around a corner, trying to make them out to be cowards by getting them to yell. His nerves jangled from the constant tension of bracing for assaults.

When the figure loomed up at the head of a staircase, Harry stifled his yelp a bit more successfully than Blaise beside him. It took a minute for him to make the identification in the dim light.

"Granger?" Blaise said incredulously.

Hermione stood at the head of the staircase in a pink bathrobe, wearing a ridiculous pair of fuzzy pink slippers.

"What are you doing here?" Harry said, his voice sharper than he intended. "Go back to bed!"

"I can't," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "The door to the Gryffindor common room is closed up, and I can't get back through yet."

"Why did you come at all?" Harry demanded. "This has nothing to do with you!"

"To tell you not to do this!" Hermione said. "It's stupid and risky, Harry! You're going to get in trouble. You might even get expelled!"

"What do you care?" Blaise asked her, although his tone was more curious than upset.

Hermione's face flushed.

It was a really good question, Harry realized. Why did Hermione care?

"I just do," she said.

Harry didn't push it. Instead, he just said, "Well, I'm not changing my mind." He moved past her down the hallway. To his surprise, he realized Hermione was following, along with Blaise. The two of them were trading uneasy glances.

For that matter, he wondered, why did Hermione always sit with him in Potions? As he looked back at her following in his wake, he realized he'd never seen her just spending time with her classmates the way the other Gryffindors did. In classes, she always came and went by herself. She never seemed to be talking with anyone else at meals. She was always alone.

They were aboveground now, and slanting stripes of moonlight crossed the hall, lighting the stones intermittently. So far, they had avoided running into anyone but Hermione, but as they crept up the final staircase to the third floor, he expected to run into Filch at every step.

The final hallway to the trophy room was deserted, and they stepped inside to find the room itself empty as well. Harry stood there for a moment in the silence and then Blaise spoke. "Trap," he said laconically. Harry could feel the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner."

It was Filch's voice, and it was coming from the next room. Harry's head jerked around to stare at the doorway, then stepped back the way they'd come, gesturing urgently for the others to follow him. They had barely cleared the doorway when they heard Filch enter the trophy room.

As they darted around another corner, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the caretaker, Blaise ran head-on into a suit of armor, which slammed to the ground in a long series of echoing clangs.

It was enough to wake the castle.

"RUN!" Harry bellowed. Blaise and Hermione hardly needed the advice; they ran with him headlong down the corridor, taking turns without the least concept of where they were heading. Harry ran straight into a tapestry and discovered a secret passage on the other side, and they plunged down it to emerge near the Charms classroom, which was far from the trophy room.

Harry finally dared to slow, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "I think – think we've lost him," he managed.

Hermione was leaning against the wall, clutching at a stitch in her side. "I – told – you," she managed to get out around gasps.

"We've got to get back to bed," Blaise told Harry, glancing back behind them as if expecting Filch to round the corner at any second.

"It was a trap," Hermione was still saying. "He never meant to meet you. He told Filch!"

"I know!" Harry responded to Hermione, unable to keep the anger from his voice. He bit it back down. "I know," he repeated in a more urgent undertone. "Let's go."

But things weren't going to be as easy as that. Before they'd made it out of the corridor, there was a rattle from behind them, and something shot, squealing, out of a classroom: Peeves, the Poltergeist. For an instant, Harry felt the impulse to run, but it was too late: they'd been spotted. Peeves cackled.

"Shut up, Peeves -- please -- you'll get us thrown out." Harry begged.

"Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties?" Peeves' voice grew shrill with delight. "Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you'll get caughty."

"Not if you don't give us away, Peeves, please."

"Should tell Filch, I should," said Peeves. His eyes held malicious mischief, despite the innocence of his tone. "It's for your own good, you know."

"I'll call the Bloody Baron on you," Blaise hissed at Peeves desperately. They all knew the Bloody Baron was the only one who could control Peeves. But the approach seemed to have been misguided.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves bellowed, "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR"

Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a door -- and it was locked.

"Bloody Hell!" Blaise said, pounding on the door with one fist. Harry glanced desperately back over his shoulder.

"Move over!" Hermione said urgently. She pulled her wand from a hidden pocket of her robe, tapped at the lock, and said, "Alohomora!"

The door slid obligingly open. All three of them poured through it, closing it behind them and pressing their ears up against it to listen.

"Which way did they go, Peeves?" Filch was saying. "Quick, tell me."

"Say 'please."'

"Don't mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?"

"Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," said Peeves in his annoying singsong voice.

"All right -please."

"NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" And they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch cursing in rage.

Harry relaxed against the door. "He thinks it's locked," he whispered. "We're all right." He turned to grin at Blaise and Hermione, but the expression slid off his face. Looming up behind them, completely unbeknownst to them, was a creature out of nightmare.

Hermione must have seen the look on his face, because she turned in time to see the giant three-headed dog push up to stand. It was enormous; the tips of its six ears brushed the ceiling. From three tongues, saliva dripped, and a low growl sounded in three throats like thunder from the foundation of the castle.

This was not a classroom. This was a corridor: this was the forbidden third-floor corridor. Harry now understood Dumbledore's cryptic warning from the start-of-term feast.

Harry fumbled desperately for the knob behind him. Given the choice between expulsion and death, he'd opt for expulsion. Blaise grabbed at his shoulders, desperately trying to spur him onward, which didn't help. It seemed like forever before he could get the door open, and the three of them tumbled through in a hurry, slamming the door hard behind them.

The corridor was empty. Filch had clearly moved on in his search for the miscreants. They didn't linger to wait for his return, pelting down corridors in a frantic rush to get away from the demonic dog.

They raced down a staircase and down a corridor, finally darting through a door into the Transfiguration classroom. Once inside, they paused to catch their breaths. For a moment, they just stood there, gasping unsteadily.

Blaise was the first to come up with words. "What was that thing?" he asked. "Why was it there?"

"Didn't you see it?" Hermione had gotten her breath back, and her frustration came though in angry words. "Don't you use your eyes? Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

Harry blinked at her. "The floor?" he hazarded. "I, uh, wasn't really looking at its feet, Hermione. Didn't you see the heads?"

"Not the floor," Hermione retorted. "It was standing on a trapdoor. It was guarding something."

"Guarding what?" Blaise asked.

Harry just shook his head. The question was interesting. After Hermione had flounced back to her dorm and the boys had returned to find a disappointed Draco waiting up, he lay awake mulling over the question. The dog was guarding something. Hadn't Hagrid said that Gringotts was the safest place for something you wanted to hide – except Hogwarts?

Had Harry figured out what had happened to the grubby parcel from vault seven hundred thirteen?


	4. Chapter 4

Harry didn't tell anybody his suspicions about the dog and the parcel. He wasn't sure why, but through all of Blaise's interested speculations, he remained quiet. For right now, he wanted to try and figure out the mystery on his own. What on earth could be so important that they had to bring a monster like that into the school to guard it?

"Do you think it's galleons?" Blaise asked with interest while they were supposed to be working on a Transfiguration assignment. "I mean, it must be worth an awful lot, whatever it is."

"I don't know," Harry said noncommittally. He was trying to figure out what kind of valuable object would be as little as two inches long.

"Or maybe jewels," Blaise continued, not really much listening to Harry as he rattled off possibilities. "Or magical weapons or something."

"Well," Harry tried, "if it were just something like that, why wouldn't they have left it in Gringotts? I mean, Gringotts is supposed to be really secure, right?"

Blaise made a face. "Yeah, I guess," he said. After a moment's thought, his face brightened again. "Maybe it is a weapon," he said hopefully. "Something Dumbledore wanted to have close to him."

Harry couldn't see what kind of weapon the grubby little parcel might have been, so he tapped his parchment and asked, "So, what are switching spells again?"

Blaise sighed. "Yeah," he said glumly, accepting the change of subject and flipping open his transfiguration book, though he paused to say wistfully, "Wouldn't it be brilliant if we could get past it and see what it's hiding, though? We could probably make a fortune off it."

Harry grinned back at him. It would be pretty brilliant, he had to admit.

* * *

They certainly weren't going to figure out how to get past the dog that afternoon, however. Between their transfiguration work and a lengthy essay for potions, their time was being eaten up very effectively. 

The common room was filled every night with students working on their assignments, and the first years had to tread carefully to avoid snappish comments from the students in fifth and seventh years, whose looming exams had them overloaded with work and stress.

Blaise and Harry sat there one evening, trying to master a tricky charm that moved objects across a surface. "Look," Blaise told Harry, "you're holding your wand too hard. You're not going to drop it. Hold it lighter and try." He focused on the bowl they were trying to move, tapping his wand down firmly and then sweeping it sideways. "Agilis inmanus!"

The bowl wobbled encouragingly, but didn't move. Blaise glowered at it.

"Here," Harry said. "Let me try." He shifted his grip on his wand as Blaise had advised and leveled his gaze on the bowl. Flitwick had explained to them that the spell itself was frequently useless without the will behind it, so he concentrated, willing it to move as he tapped his wand. "Agilis inmanus!"

The bowl shot sideways with considerably more force than Harry had expected, flying clear off the edge of the table and landing with a clatter near the feet of Terrence Higgs, a seventh year who was on the House Quidditch team.

Higgs had been working on an essay, but when the bowl hit the floor, his quill jerked, smearing ink over the page. He lifted furious eyes to spot Harry, who dropped his wand hastily onto the table, trying to look innocent. It was too late.

"Ardoris auris," Higgs hissed, whipping his wand out and in Harry's direction. A sharp pain seared suddenly in Harry's ears, and he clapped his hands to skin that suddenly felt drenched in flames. He bit his tongue hard on his cry and tasted blood. He had learned already that if he made any noise when the older students lashed out, he would pay for it later.

He called out to Higgs instead, desperately, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

After a few seconds, Higgs had burned off enough of his anger and ended the spell. "Go practice somewhere else," he spat at Harry.

Harry nodded hurried assent, grabbing at Blaise's arm as he climbed to his feet. "Let's go," he said, pulling Blaise towards their room.

"Man," Blaise said sympathetically as the door closed behind them. "What is that, the third time this week?"

"Yeah," Harry said, rubbing at his ear. The pain was totally gone, but the memory still smarted enough. "I need to find somewhere else to work on these things."

"You get it more quickly when you know bad things will happen if you bollocks it up," Blaise assured him. "You did really well there, anyway."

Harry gave a grin in response, dropping to sit on his four-poster bed. "I really did, yeah."

Life in Slytherin wasn't very different from life on Privet Drive in some ways. While Harry's yearmates were always jockeying for position among themselves, bullying of them by older students was expected, and they couldn't do much to resist it. It hadn't taken Harry long to adjust to that, but some of the other students had more problems.

Draco Malfoy had been hexed nearly daily for the first few weeks, until he learned to adjust. Harry was sure he only put up with them by imagining the revenge he would get at some point; Harry himself managed by reminding himself that the lessons he was learning would keep him from being helpless again once he was out of school.

* * *

When Harry saw the notice on the common room bulletin board announcing the Halloween feast later that week, he was shocked to realize how much time had gone by. With his classes and his efforts to adjust to the magical world, his schedule was full, and the days slid past without him noticing them. 

Halloween was a bright, vibrant day, and as they climbed the steps to the Great Hall, the students could smell pumpkin pies and mulled cider drifting up from the kitchens. The entire castle was buzzing with excitement.

In transfiguration that day, they were working on transfiguring a beetle into a button. Blaise and Harry were repeating the incantation over and over again on their six-legged button in between excited speculations about what the feast would be like.

"What do you think they'll serve us for dinner?" Harry asked. "Vertere!" The button waved its legs feebly.

"Other than everything?" Blaise replied with a grin. "Vertere! I figure beef, ham, chicken, biscuits, potatoes, Vertere, squash, beans, pumpkin juice, cider, Vertere, tarts, pie…"

The button looked unimpressed by Blaise's efforts, trying now to climb off the side of the table. Harry scooped it up and dropped it again in the middle of the table, eyeing it skeptically.

"If you would focus on your work, you would have more success." Professor McGonagall snapped suddenly from behind them. Harry and Blaise spun guiltily to look up at her. She was leveling a disapproving look at the pair of them.

"Uh, sorry, professor," Harry said.

McGonagall looked unimpressed with the apology. "Again, Mr. Potter," she instructed, peering at him through her spectacles and gesturing towards the button.

Harry let out a sigh and turned back towards the scuttling button. Taking a deep breath, he focused his attention on it and pointed his wand. He took a few seconds to clear his mind, then tapped his wand and repeated, again, "Vertere!"

As much to his surprise as anyone else's, the scuttling legs receded and vanished, leaving a shiny black button behind. Blaise stared for a moment, then flashed a grin at Harry. "Nice work, mate!" he said enthusiastically.

"You see, Mr. Potter, what you can do when you concentrate," McGonagall said, although the sternness in her voice had lifted somewhat. "Well done. Ten points to Slytherin."

The unexpected praise gave Harry a flush of pride, and he grinned back at her, then over at Blaise. From across the room, Draco glowered at him.

* * *

That afternoon they had flying lessons, which was a good way to burn off energy. The Gryffindors were keyed up as well, which led to a lot of tension between the two houses. As Madam Hooch blew her whistle to start class, Harry realized that Hermione wasn't in the group. He waited for a lull in the class and cornered Neville on the lawn. 

"Hey," he said. "Where's Hermione?"

Neville looked terrified of him, which was, Harry thought, a rather extreme reaction. "Look," he said impatiently. "I'm not going to jinx you or anything. I just want to know where Hermione is."

"I don't know," Neville said, still looking frightened.

Parvati Patil, one of the Gryffindor girls, overheard them. "She's in the girl's bathroom," she informed them. "Ron and Dean made her cry, and she wants to be left alone."

Harry blinked at her. "Oh," he said. "Thanks." She gave a little shrug and moved on. Harry turned to look for Ron Weasley, and saw him with Seamus Finnegan, laughing about something. Madam Hooch was trying to correct Millicent Bulstrode's grip.

Harry strode over to the Gryffindor boys. "What did you do to Hermione, Weasley?" he demanded.

Ron looked up and flushed to the roots of his hair. "None of your business," he said hotly.

"Did you hex her?" Harry pressed. His hand wrapped around his wand, and he felt a hand on his elbow: it was Blaise.

"Easy, Harry," Blaise said. A flick of his eyes indicated Madam Hooch, who was striding over towards them.

"What's going on here?" she asked in a booming voice.

"Nothing," Harry muttered, whirling away from Ron and back to his broom.

* * *

Hermione still hadn't returned by the time the feast began that evening. There was an empty space at the end of the Gryffindor table, and when Harry scanned its length, he couldn't see her anywhere. It put a bit of a damper on the festivities, although it was hard to be too glum when surrounded by the festive atmosphere that was the decorated Great Hall. 

Evilly grinning jack-o'-lanterns bobbed in the air, and thousands of live bats swirled in colonies overhead. The tables gleamed with gold plates and goblets, which filled at a word from Dumbledore, just as they had for the start-of-term banquet.

Harry and Theodore were bickering good-naturedly over a chicken drumstick when Professor Quirrell burst through the doors of the Great Hall, staggering up to Professor Dumbledore. He slumped against the table and gasped, in a clearly audible voice: "Troll -- in the dungeons -- thought you ought to know."

He slumped to the floor, unconscious.

There were a few seconds of overwhelming silence, and then the hall erupted. Students pushed upright from their chairs, jostling the tables and each other in their attempts to get to safety. In the end, Dumbledore lifted his wand and shot purple firecrackers into the air.

They burst in explosions of color, and the hall fell silent. Dumbledore spoke into the stillness. "Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Maria Marcos, their prefect, looked for a moment like she might abandon them all to fend for themselves, but overcame the impulse. "Okay, everyone!" she called. "Move. Fast." Her eyes flicked around as if she was expecting the troll to come through the door any minute; it was clear she wasn't prepared to wait long for them to follow.

Everyone who wasn't already standing clambered hastily to their feet. Harry overheard Draco muttering to Crabbe as they lined up: "Troll. If we were at a real school, none of us would need to be afraid of trolls." His voice was scornful.

Harry turned to Theodore. "How do you think it got in?" he asked.

"How the blazes should I know?" Theodore asked. "I didn't let it in."

"Someone must have," Draco said, pushing up to stand between the pair of them without waiting for an invitation. The group of Slytherins moved slowly towards the door to the Great Hall. "Trolls are so stupid, there's no way it got in on its own."

"Who would do that?" Blaise asked, coming up to join the group.

"Well," Draco said, "I think Potter's off the list of suspects. He'd be too scared to get that close to a troll." He smirked lazily.

Harry felt a surge of anger and bit down on it with an effort. "I am not afraid," he said.

"Yeah?" Draco arched his eyebrows, and Harry's stomach sank at the triumphant expression on Draco's face. He had a feeling he'd walked into something unfortunate.

"Then I bet," Draco went on, "that you're just waiting for your chance to slip away and face it. I mean, that's what you do, isn't it, Potter? End menaces? Kill evil things?"

Harry could only stare at him for a minute. Theodore and Blaise were looking at Harry now, expectant, though Harry couldn't tell what they were expecting. Was he supposed to go along? Laugh in Draco's face?

"Yeah," he said at last. "I was. I guess I'm lucky that you're a gutsy enough guy to come along and witness, right?"

Draco went a bit pale. Blaise let out a short laugh. "Sorry," he said when Draco turned to glare at him, without a hint of repentance in his voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry said, sensing that he was going the right way now. "Did you want to go back to the dorm?"

They were nearly to the door now, some of the last ones to leave the Great Hall.

"I'm not afraid," Draco snarled. "I'll go with you."

Harry's heart sank. He had been hoping Draco would back down and give him an out; he had been certain Draco didn't have the nerve. Now they were both stuck.

Blaise and Theodore were looking kind of stunned by the entire exchange, and Theodore finally let out a low whistle. They were out into the corridors now, heading towards the staircase down. Harry drew a deep breath, then jerked his head towards one of the corridors. He and Draco peeled off into it, leaving the others behind.

They waited in silence for the footsteps to fade. Draco finally spoke into the quiet. "Which way, then, hero?"

Harry had no idea. "Down, I guess. Come on." They headed for one of the staircases to the dungeons, but the sound of hurried footsteps stopped them. Harry grabbed Draco's arm and jerked him into a doorway. From inside the darkened room, they watched as Professor Snape strode down the hallway, his black robes flapping around his ankles.

Harry looked at Draco, who just shrugged. "No idea," he whispered.

"Come on," Harry whispered. The two of them crept out into the hallway and after Snape. He went up one staircase, then down a corridor. When he reached the next staircase, Harry stopped dead.

"He's heading for the third floor," he said.

"So?" Draco asked with irritation in his voice.

Harry glanced at him, then shook his head. He certainly wasn't going to tell Draco about what he had seen the night Draco set him up. Draco's eyes narrowed. Before he could say anything, however, Harry placed an odd sensation that was starting to bother him.

"Do you smell that?" he asked.

Draco opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, puzzled. He sniffed. The foul odors of public bathroom and gym locker mingled in the air. "What is –"

And then they heard it.

There was a low whuffling noise, and the muffled thud of footsteps. A grunt drifted out of the shadows. Draco made a small noise and shrank backwards, whispering "Oh, no. Oh, no…"

Harry, too, pulled backwards; his breathing was coming shallow now. They watched, horrified, as a massive figure moved into the light pouring through a window.

They had found the troll.

It was a hideous sight: over twelve feet tall, with rock-grey skin, a body that looked like a collection of lumps stuck together with library paste, and a small, misshapen head perched atop the entire mess. Its flat, horny feet shuffled along the ground as he sloped nearer to them, dragging an enormous club along the ground behind him.

It stopped beside a doorway, peering into the room. Harry held his breath. After a moment, the troll stepped through the open door, disappearing from view.

"The key is in the lock," Harry muttered to Draco. "We could lock him in there."

"Do it!" Draco hissed, not moving.

Harry darted forward toward the door, slammed it closed with a bang, and turned the key. He felt a rush of triumph, and grinned back at Draco. Draco returned the grin as the troll bellowed inside the bathroom, slow to react to its imprisonment.

The sudden, high-pitched scream from inside the room knocked both grins away. Harry swiveled his head back to stare at the door, realizing suddenly that it was the girls' bathroom. "Hermione," he said, realizing what they had just done.

"Leave her!" Draco yelled. "Who cares? It's a troll!"

Harry ignored him. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he reopened the door, plunging inside.

Hermione was pressed up against the opposite wall, pale and terrified. The troll was advancing on her, swinging its club to smash the sinks as it passed.

Harry had no idea what he was doing, or even if Draco was there to help him out. All he knew was that he had to do something. He picked up a tap and flung it hard at the troll's head, bellowing "Run!" at Hermione.

The tap bounced off the head and ricocheted into the wall, clattering loudly. The troll stopped approaching Hermione, standing stupidly for a moment, then slowly turned to see Harry. After a moment, it seemed to decide it liked Harry better as a target, and stepped slowly towards him, lifting its club.

Harry backpedaled desperately, trying to keep distance between him and the troll. A glance at Hermione showed her frozen in place against the wall, terrified. Harry yelled at her, "Run, Hermione! Come on, move!" But she was locked in place, too terrified to move. Harry cast about frantically for anything he could use, but nothing seemed like a particularly effective weapon against a 12-foot mountain troll.

His yells and the echoes off the walls seemed to be bothering the troll; it shook its head desperately, then let out an enraged bellow, charging at Harry. He ducked desperately sideways, barely evading the club as it swiped down at him. "HERMIONE!"

Another voice suddenly sliced through the room: "Caedus!"

The troll let out a new cry, shrill and pained. Harry dropped his wand, clapping his hands over his ears. The cry cut off sharply, and the troll slowly toppled over sideways to land with a thud on the floor, a wide, bloody wound along his side.

Draco was standing in the doorway, his wand still up, his eyes wide.

Hermione was the first one to speak. "Is it – dead?"

"I think so," Harry answered slowly. The troll wasn't moving, and a pool of blood was slowly forming around it.

"Good," Draco said, his voice short.

The three of them stared at the troll for another minute. Harry was starting to wonder what they should do now when the sound of slamming doors and hurried footsteps came from the hallway. Of course, Harry realized, someone must have heard the racket they were making; the troll certainly wasn't being quiet.

Professor McGonagall burst into the room, with Snape on her heels and Professor Quirrell a few steps behind him. Quirrell, upon seeing the troll, let out a little whimper and had to sit on a toilet to keep from falling over.

Snape bent over the troll. McGonagall was staring at Harry and Draco, her lips white with anger. Hopes of glory slid out of Harry's mind.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked at Draco, who hastily stuffed his wand into his pocket. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

Snape looked up from his crouch on the floor, peering at Harry and Draco with keen interest. Harry had the uncanny sense that he knew more than he was letting on. Snape spoke in his silky tones: "Minerva, I am –"

"Please, Professor," Hermione cut him off, looking pale and scared, "they were looking for me."

Harry jerked his head around to stare at her, astonished. Draco looked as though she had suddenly sprouted a few extra heads; his mouth was slightly open.

"Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall sounded as disbelieving as they looked; Snape was eying Harry with extreme skepticism.

"I went looking for the troll because I -- I thought I could deal with it on my own -- you know, because I've read all about them." Hermione had made it to her feet by now, and was speaking in a desperate rush. "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."

"Which one of you boys did this?" Snape asked, his eyes moving between the pair of them.

"I did," Draco put in immediately, as if afraid that Harry would try to steal his credit. Something about the look in Snape's eyes, however, made Harry think he might not want the credit for this.

McGonagall was still staring, astonished at Hermione. Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?" Hermione hung her head. Harry was astonished that she would go to so much effort to take the blame for something that was clearly not her fault: they were, after all, the ones that had locked her in with the troll in the first place.

"Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm very disappointed in you. If you're not hurt at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor tower. Students are finishing the feast in their houses."

Hermione left.

Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry and Draco. "As for the two of you," she began.

"They are my responsibility, Minerva," Snape put in smoothly.

"Ah – of course, Severus." McGonagall gave Harry and Draco another look. "I will go alert the others that the troll has been… found." She paused again, then left the bathroom. Quirrell followed closely behind her, leaving Harry and Draco alone with Snape.

"You are extremely fortunate," he said silkily, "that Miss Granger was kind enough to lie for you. That kind of stupidity could get you both cast out."

Harry flushed, looking at the ground. Draco, beside him, stared mutinously at Snape.

"We saved her life!" he said.

"And for that… ten points to Slytherin for each of you," Snape acknowledged. "But Mr. Malfoy… I would be very cautious about the types of spells you choose to demonstrate around the castle."

His eyes glittered darkly. Draco nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir," he said.

Snape paused, then said, "Both of you, back to the common room. You may yet find some food left, and I am sure your housemates are eager to hear the tale of your thrilling escapades."

Harry felt a rush of relief as he and Draco escaped without punishment, hurrying away down the corridor.

"What was that spell?" he asked Draco, grateful now that the other boy hadn't actually shown up for their midnight duel.

"Something my father taught me," Draco said. "He said his son should never be without the means to defend himself."

"Can you show me?" Harry asked.

Draco stopped walking, and so Harry stopped as well, turning to look back at him. Draco was eyeing Harry suspiciously.

"What?" Harry said.

"Maybe," Draco said grudgingly.

They continued on down the long staircase towards the Slytherin common room.

"That was pretty decent of Granger," Draco said as they headed down the last corridor.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "It really was."

Draco made a brief face as if he smelled something unpleasant, then spoke the password to open up the common room. They stepped through together.


End file.
